Mineral Spirits
by Alone Dreaming
Summary: When a person cannot deceive himself the chances are against his being able to deceive other people. -Mark Twain
1. Chapter 1

**_Mineral Spirits_**

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Disclaimer: **If I owned it, it wouldn't be under fan fiction.

**Rating: **PG (for a gun and mild violence)

**Warnings: **Gun, mild violence, a lot of thinking, a lot of unresolved tension, a bit of blood

**Author's Note:** Really, just rumination, inspired by (a) a quote and (b) the fever meme at ariadnes_string's LJ. While it did not turn out precisely like the prompt (in fact, I think it doesn't really answer the prompt at all), the prompt got me thinking a little and the quote helped direct me.

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><p>When a person cannot deceive himself the chances are against his being able to deceive other people.<p>

-Mark Twain-

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><p>Before Neal goes into a con, he convinces himself of its reality.<p>

First, he works with his cover. He studies it from all aspects starting with the way his cover dresses to the way he speaks to his family to minuscule things like his favorite color and food. To sell it, he tries to make it as close to fact as possible so that it doesn't become too fantastical for him keep straight. By the end of it, he can stand in front of a mirror, look at himself, say his cover name and, honestly, without a doubt, believe himself that man.

The next thing he does is study the circumstances. Whatever plan he has conceived, he views from every point of view. He starts with his, pondering every detail as a conman. Then, he views it as his cover, pouring his false name over it. When he's through with that, he flips it to the view of those he intends on conning, be it a museum or person or group. If the plan remains secure under their scrutiny, he thoroughly checks it as an independent party with no investment in the situation; a false painting, he scrutinizes like an expert of the era and a robbery schematic he probes like a government agent trying to solve the crime.

With this secure, he does the most important and most difficult part. He believes, without a doubt, that his cover deserves whatever he has set out to acquire. As the loosest piece of his foundation, it takes him the longest amount of time. He mortars it, sets it, adds concrete and extra support, and eventually, he can step out the door thinking that he has the right to that money, that painting, that artifact.

And when he does this perfectly, he sells a scheme better than any man alive. His nearly pathological lying talents aside, he can forge better than anyone he's ever met; he doesn't dare say anyone alive as he knows there are stronger, faster players who will happily swat him down like the young cub he is. Most paintings, even without his extra inspections, would puzzle the best authenticator, much like his bonds have. Pair this with his connections and easy charm, and no one will argue he's a force to be reckoned with.

Except… maybe now.

He felt himself slipping when he signed on with Peter, felt some of his edge dulled. Initially, he thought it due to his association with the law. It killed half of his social network because no one wanted to deal with him; many thought him a snitch and those who begrudgingly admitted he had made a comfortable (if not good) decision, did not want to get close enough to chance getting caught in the riptide.

Then, he thought maybe it had to do with the impromptu work of his job. The FBI did not give him the time to carefully establish his identity and plans. Everything came in rapid fire, and while he had the ability to think on his feet, the ground that he used to build his identity on wobbled like wet sand on the beach. One or two cases like that would not matter but the steady stream loosened his tight control over his powers and encouraged him to go soft. His practice waned before his eyes.

But, finally, he realized the truth.

Mozzie had hinted at it for a while with his subversive commentary about Peter. Neal understood it, finally, one night as he enjoyed a glass of wine and his books. And when he did understand it, it came clearly, with the knowledge that it was Elizabeth, Jones, Diana and Peter and June and all of them together.

They had revived in him a conscience.

The other things had weakened him, without a doubt, but Peter and his damned white knight morals with Elizabeth's kind understanding, Diana's fiery passion, Jones's patient goodwill and June's stability had coaxed to life something Neal had stamped dead. A sense of morality had reanimated in him and the last step of his perfect conning had choked under the pressure. No longer could he fully convince himself that what he did was right when he put on that mask and the cornerstone of his operation was compromised.

Flash to now, as he considers the broad view of his life and choices. In a storage unit, he has millions of dollars worth of Nazi goods, waiting for him to dispose of them and collect his reward. He has a friend- a loyal, long-suffering, true friend- who is willing to do all the heavy-lifting to help him escape. He has the promise of an easy life before him if he can just find it in him to say 'yes' to the plan. All he has in his life is a rented room with a good view and tasteful clothes. All he does is work as a dog for the government. All his relationships are those based upon eggshell treading and half-lies; not trust, not from anyone except June.

A clinical eye tells him to sell a piece and flee. Peter refuses to truly trust him and Elizabeth will side with Peter. He cannot blame Peter for it completely; he has done a number of less than kosher things since he has been on work release. But it frustrates him that every time something happens, Peter assumes that he has a hand in it. Whatever friendship they have is a joke because Peter will never believe what Neal says first, without proof. If he sells the piece and it's on Peter's list, then, at least, Peter has a reason to doubt him.

And better to live on the lam than continue playing house. Nothing he has belongs to him, not his apartment, not his money, not his clothes, not his food; everything belongs to someone else, either Mozzie (who carefully refers to it as their funds) or June (who tells him she would've donated it anyway) or the Bureau. He's a doll, dressed up and played with, but never respected; whatever he can do for the Bureau is fine. Whatever he has leftover, useless or unnecessary.

But that conscience nips him whenever he justifies himself. He has proven himself untrustworthy. He has broken out of jail. He has obfuscated. He has run. He has not given Peter all the details and that has caused strife between them. Sometimes, it's even put people in danger. He has often been in the wrong.

He has a headache.

"Neal?"

He blinks and tilts his head, concealing everything with a carefully raised eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Just checking to make sure you're not spacing out. Need you focused," Peter says. He watches Neal like a particularly fascinating animal in a cage; a lion tamer who knows his animals every move, mood and expression and uses that against them to control them.

"Sorry." He turns his attention to the building, the pedestrians coming and going from it. "Anything interesting?"

"Not remotely," Peter removes a sandwich, neatly wrapped with a note attached to it. Neal can see Elizabeth's handwriting. Peter offers a piece to Neal who refuses. "But something will. I know it."

"Your infamous gut giving its opinion?" he teases.

"Yes, it's hungry. My powers of deduction, however, say that the facts and history point here. Now, all we have to do, is wait."

The dinner sits in a brown paper bag, each item wrapped in plastic. There's enough to feed an army in it; Elizabeth caters for a living and she won't half-ass it at home. Fruit, sandwiches, homemade chips, several kinds of cookies; a feast for an army or for her husband and his criminal consultant. She even packed a few things that Peter wouldn't eat, things that Neal prefers, and it pushes all the wrong buttons.

The conscience makes him certain he wants to stay. These people, good, steady people, have given him a chance to turn his life around. His skills, so drawn towards crime, have a legal outlet now, one that- if he plays the game properly- may continue post his work release. As an undercover consultant, he can still play the game- con the bad guys, pull a few heists- but he won't end up in prison for it. He won't have to run. Every day, he can return home to a nice apartment, with nice clothes and freedom to practice art for the sake of art. The thirst to pull a heist for the sake of pulling a heist will be somewhat satiated, enough so that he might survive and he can live without looking over his shoulder, without playing the game of chance.

He barely recognizes himself anymore.

He has identified himself by his abilities to run a scam for so long that the idea of not living that way frightens him. He doesn't know if he can. Initially, when he escaped the very first time to find Kate, he thought if he could just find her and convince her to give him another chance, he would go straight. He'd call in every favor he had, sell everything he ever collected and settle them happily in a vineyard in Italy. He thought that Kate, beautiful, perfect Kate, could be his ticket to a life without crime, without moral compromise; Kate would steady him, be his conscience and his guide, and would teach him how to live.

But she was gone on that last day in prison and with her, his hope for stability shattered. Even Sarah and Alex, beautiful, smart, cunning, don't hold a flame to the promise that Kate offered him. Without her, he has nothing but the game to soothe him.

He is lost.

"Neal, you with me?" Peter nudges him and he jerks slightly, pretending to rouse from a nap. The building remains suspect free.

"Sorry, thinking," he apologizes, absently. He removes his hat and places it in his lap.

"Nothing too important or devious, I hope." Peter half-teases but Neal can sense the seriousness in his tone.

"You know me, Peter," he says and leaves it at that.

"Too well," Peter adds, focusing on him. "Everything all right?"

"Peachy-keen."

"Right."

"Right."

"Neal…"

"Peter?"

"_Neal…_"

He applies his most innocent mask. "What?"

"Are you all right?"

Aye, there's the rub. The expression Peter wears is so earnest that Neal cannot question the other man's concern. Peter cares for him in an overprotective manner that reminds him of a paranoid older brother. Because of that, he wants to trust Neal- Neal can read this on his face- but the perpetual disappointment causes him to second guess things. He can read Neal like a book, knows his true nature, but thinks that maybe, if he scans the pages enough times, that his willpower alone can change the ending. Half of Peter's irritation comes from the subconscious knowledge that he will never, ever change Neal because the only person that can change Neal is himself.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Peter frowns at him, the kind of frown that wrinkles his forehead and makes him ten years older than he actually is. For once, he doesn't push it, just watches. Watching has become a pivotal part of their relationship since the explosion and Adler. Neal watches Peter to see how close he's come to the buried treasure and Peter watches Neal to see when his facade will drop and reveal the truth. They're dancing, again, but instead of Neal running and Peter dogging his steps like a hound on scent, they're tangoing their way down to hell. First person to misstep loses and Neal's lost so much of his former strength that he knows it'll be him. The bear trap of the conscience on his one foot with the treadless heel of his opposite shoe can only be ignored for so long.

"Neal." They've been quiet for another fifteen minutes. "You know that you can tell me and we'll find a way to work it out, right?"

Could it? If he opens up right this minute and spills every drop of information that he's kept damned up in him, could they work it out? Could they work out the bunkers of stolen goods he gave to Moz or, more importantly, the locker of full of the Nazi plunder that Moz has given to him? If he, with every ounce of veracity that he possesses, informs Peter of what had happened, could Peter believe him and make things right?

He has no answer and dares not advance lest he trip and fall. The real problem springs to life before him in a technicolor blossom. His skills aren't fading; they're overstretched and overused. He has spent so much time lately fighting them and using them, stabilizing them in front of Peter, and dropping them in front of Mozzie that he's lost the most important part of the scheme- the blank canvas. He has lost himself.

He leans his head against the window and waits for the epiphany that always comes. Whenever he's faced with a roadblock, he inevitably finds a way around it, over it, under it or through it. Somehow, he'll find his way out of this whether it's by running or staying or something else all together.

"There he is," Peter murmurs, setting aside the cookies and unlocking the doors. "Come on, Sundance, let's go."

He slips out his door, hat going back on his head, thoughts swirling about like a veil in front of his eyes. The charm may ooze from his pores but he's preoccupied with the future and not the now. It's lesson number one, keep complete focus on the game, but his head's pounding and the problem weighs on him too heavily to ignore.

"Mr. Frankel," Peter calls when they're within two yards and closing. "FBI."

Frankel's middle age, middle height, middle weight, middle colored and so nondescript that Neal wouldn't look at him twice on the streets; the plain suit he wears only furthers the image of ordinary, paper-pushing bureaucrat. He couldn't have a better disguise if he tried.

And he couldn't look more guilty by bolting the moment Peter announces himself as law enforcement.

Peter doesn't need to tell him to pursue. Despite the distrust and uncertainty, they make an almost flawless team. At first, he thought it came from practice, from working with people who did not trust him and who he did not trust in the business because achieving the goal gave them enough of a bond to stabilize the plan, but it's not the same with Peter. There's an ease to their partnership that he's never felt anywhere else, an ease that he can't even feign with others. He and Peter may not trust each other all the time- or, rather, Peter may not trust him all the time- but they know each other so well that it doesn't matter.

Peter sprints one way and Neal turns down the alley, skidding across garbage and puddles. If it turns out right, he'll intercept Frankel just in time for Peter to sweep in with the cuffs. His shoes aren't made for running- fine leather, thin soles, perfect for walking and preening- and his balance keeps wavering as he splashes and trips. Just a few more steps, he encourages himself. He's oddly winded and exhausted but, then again, he hasn't exactly been doing cardio the way he used to.

Frankel and Peter pass him just as he reaches the sidewalk. Peter's running full speed and he follows in Peter's trail, keeping pace if not overtaking him. Frankel will run out of steam soon. The most important part of a chase is the first half-mile; outside of marathoners, no one can keep speed after that. They'll catch him if they can just keep him in sight for the next few minutes.

Frankel cuts across the road and into another alleyway with the pair of them in pursuit. Peter's hand is inside his jacket, on his gun, and Neal feels uncertainty creep into his throat. They break apart again, this time with him circling around and Peter taking the alley. He cuts his journey short by passing through the building, flashing a woman departing with a charming smile and shoving through the emergency (alarm will sound, hah) door. If he can trip Frankel up, they can go home faster and he can sleep off the dilemma and the pulse thrumming behind his eyes.

"Stop right there," Frankel squeaks. His voice trembles as he says it. In his hands, he holds Peter's gun and Peter's sprawled on the pavement, dazed, a lump growing on his forehead.

"I'm not moving," Neal holds his hands up. "Look, unarmed."

Frankel holds the gun on Peter. "Come any closer and he's dead."

He doesn't want Peter dead, not ever, no matter how many times Peter disbelieves him or foils him or catches him. The world has too many people like Neal in it and not enough people like Peter; too many shadows with too few white knights. Even at his angriest, he has never wanted Peter gone so much as out of his business; permanently out of his business would be perfect. Permanently out of his business and through a situation out of his control would be better than perfect because then he wouldn't have to say goodbye.

But not like this.

"I'm staying right here," Neal tells him. "After all, you have him right where I want him."

Frankel shifts, sweat gathering on his brow. "W-what?"

"Oh, please, like you aren't aware," Neal sniffs.

"Don't… don't play games with me!" Frankel's voice reaches a new pitch and, now, Neal's sweating.

"Don't YOU play games with ME," he snaps. "Everyone knows about this." He lifts his pant leg just enough that the tracker's light can be seen. "Or are you telling me a swindler like you is so far out of the loop you haven't heard about Tattletale Caffrey?"

"I… I've heard," Frankel mumbles. Neal can see right through him.

"Then you know you have him right where I've wanted him for years," Neal says.

"Neal…" Peter whispers and Neal can't tell whether he believes or if he's helping sell it.

"Shut up," Frankel snaps, waving the gun in a manner that makes Neal's stomach drop to his feet. "Shut UP!"

"Shut him up and get it over with," Neal says and prays he's pinned Frankel right.

"B-but…" Frankel stares at him.

"But what?" Neal asks. "Is it a matter of money? I've got plenty to pay you for the favor. Name your price. It's worth it to get free. You have no idea how awful it is, day in, day out, paper work, commands, the lack of appreciation, passing over perfectly ripe opportunities due to this," he shakes his leg, "And the knowledge that I will never be free of him, regardless of what I do. Pull the trigger, Frankel."

"H-how do I know you're telling the truth?" Frankel practically whimpers it. Peter's watching him with an inscrutable expression. "D-didn't they confiscate your funds when you got arrested?"

He laughs. "Do you really think that I don't have back-up accounts? Spare warehouses? Tell me, Frankel, what exactly do you know about me?"

Frankel's eyes keep flickering back to Peter, who's moving into a crouch, to Neal. "J-just the rumors. That you were the best and now you're a Fed. That you lost everything when you got arrested. That you're the one to call when something impossible needs to be done. The basics." His hand strengthens some. "And I also heard that you've changed since you got out."

Here's the proof that he's getting sloppy. He can't even fool an idiot. "Well, you can't-"

"No, shut up," Frankel snaps. He sounds far too confident. "They also say you've got a silver tongue, Caffrey, and you can talk your way out of anything. That you're almost all talk these days. So, shut up!"

"What's your price?"

"Shut… up!"

The gun goes off and misses Peter by inches. Neal's heart speeds up until it's almost painful in his chest. His head throbs even harder. "What about a whole room of lost treasures from the Nazi regime?"

"You don't have that!" Frankel snarls. "I know what happened to that. It burned."

"No, you're wrong." And he might be, too, judging by Peter's expression. But he's out of ideas and the best lies to tell are the ones he's completely convinced of and there's nothing he's more convinced of than the truth. "I've got it all in a storage unit in this city. I rescued it before it burned and, now, it's just waiting to be liquidated. How about half? Half to free me from my chains."

He can't see Peter because Frankel's advancing on him. "How do I know you aren't lying?"

And hopefully Peter won't see this. "Because of this."

He holds up a phone, one that Mozzie wired for him so he could keep an eye on the treasures at all times. It doesn't work perfectly and often needs recharging but it lets him check in when he needs to. He holds up the live stream so Frankel can stare at the images, all the camera angles and the time stamp.

"See," he says, wondering if he can keep Frankel distracted long enough to disarm him. "A treasure trove. And I will split it with you."

Peter hits Frankel around the middle and the gun goes off again. The three of them end up in a pile on the ground, Frankel shouting and flailing, Peter doing his best to pin him and Neal simply trying to crawl free of the fray. The gun has bounced off some two feet away and he rolls towards it, then on top of it. His fingers close around it and he locks the safety. The clip slides out at his then does he sit up to see if Peter's won the battle.

Peter has, his knee pressed between Frankel's shoulder blades. He's speaking rights but his eyes are fixed on the rigged cell. It lies, its wares bared like a cheap hooker, and Neal feels the ache in his stomach increase. He struggles to his feet, hoping to snatch it away before Peter can get a good eyeful, but he knows its already too late. The decision he hoped to make has been made and the time to run is now.

"Neal," Peter says, his voice a deadly calm. "Gun, please."

He hands the gun over, looped over his finger. The clip follows and he wipes his hands over his rumpled clothes afterwards. He cannot meet Peter's eye, cannot dare to see the disappointment, because that conscience that Peter's given him is chewing him apart.

Peter drags Frankel to his feet, his balance a bit unsteady. Neal fights the urge to grab his arm and offer support. It will not be welcome, now, likely never again. No matter how much Peter suspected that he had the treasure, he knew that Peter hoped to be wrong. Paranoia dictated that Peter dig and block and watch but the idealistic side of Peter had hoped that it hadn't been true.

Peter starts a steady limp towards the car and Neal follows in his wake, a forgotten raft. He doesn't know what to say, how to fill the silence, and he refuses to look down at the phone as he pockets it. Peter wavers a bit as they trudge along, Frankel whimpering incoherently under his breath, and Neal tucks his hands in his pockets. There's a hole in his jacket, skimming over his left hip, and it draws a frustrating comparison that he doesn't want to acknowledge.

They reach the car, Peter calls in back-up, Neal hovers in the background. He's aware that he hurts as the adrenaline fades but he's turning inward again, like he has for most of the day. His next step splays before him, unabashed, encouraging him to send Mozzie a text. Whatever tricks the little man has up his sleeve, it's time for the grand finale. In his scenarios, he had rarely entertained the idea of returning to prison. Either he escaped or he stayed, never did he pay for a crime he did not commit.

He cannot return there.

He fumbles with the phone, the phone that betrayed him, the phone he regrets he has and regrets he used-

He sits heavily on a bench when he realizes that he'd be deceiving himself to take that thought any further. What he currently feels is not regret, or anger over saving Peter and spilling his secrets. What he feels right now is frustration, anger and guilt over showing the truth. And if he regrets it that much, so much that he can barely define it, then he has truly deceived himself all along. He knows what he wants most and it's not millions of dollars in Nazi treasure.

An eternity passes, maybe two, and he doesn't move from his bench. The phone remains in his pocket, clenched in his fingers, but he doesn't text. For the third time in his life, he's willing to take whatever the world will dole out to him. Like the two times he risked jail (or extended time) for Kate, risking imprisonment for Peter comes just as easily, as selflessly. Under the layers of paint, he's scratched the surface of himself again and oddly, finds it just as white as Peter's shining armor.

Someone sits next to him. Judging by the shoes, it's Peter. He swallows and starts to count the scrapes on the surface and gouges in the soles.

"That was a pretty impressive show you put on," Peter says, carefully, slowly, talking to Neal like he's a perp, not a friend.

He doesn't reply.

"And it leaves me with two questions," Peter continues. "First of which being, why that?"

He lets his eyes travel up to Peter's pants. They're torn and dirty. There's a splash of dark red at the corner. of one ankle and he can see blood trickling from a scrape on Peter's calf.

"First thing that came to mind," he says. "First thing to tempt him and distract him. Everyone's heard about it. Everyone knows I was involved. It was easy."

Peter's silent. Neal's gaze travels to his thighs then up to his steepled fingers. Peter's not looking at him which makes things simpler. His vision blurs and he forces himself to look at his own shoes. The water's ruined them.

"So, instead of using those accounts you have in the Caymans," Peter baits. "Or any of the other treasure troves you've stored away, you use something that you know I have concerns about in order to encourage him to kill me?"

"You heard him." He feels an odd flare of annoyance. "He didn't believe I had any funds from the old days. I had to sell him on something, Peter, long enough to distract him so you could get his gun." He pauses, feels Peter take a breath to continue, but rambles on before his friend can speak. "And you had to sell it to. It was the best choice for the moment. I would never… I couldn't… You know… I wouldn't ever…"

A hand squeezes his shoulder and he's surprised to find he's shaking. He's chilled, uncomfortable and so drained that he could probably sleep on the bench without a complaint. On top of the headache, he's dizzy and his thoughts have started tumbling about messily.

"I know, Neal," Peter says, gently. "Killing's not in you. Neither is having someone kill for you."

"You're wrong," Neal murmurs. "It's in me to kill. Just not in me to kill you."

Peter gives him a moment for which he's ridiculously grateful. They sit as Diana and Jones take over the scene, quiet. Instead of wide and open, New York feels condensed to that single pinpoint, that one street with the bench, the cars, the light post. Nothing else exists.

"One more question," Peter says, as everything calms down.

Neal's focused on his hands. He skinned the right one when he fell and it throbs with every beat of his heart. His left one, oddly, has blood on it even though it doesn't hurt at all.

"What the hell did you show him on that phone? He sure looked convinced."

He almost tells Peter the truth because he knows that Peter saw; he looks up- he needs to meet Peter's eyes when he says it so he can see the sincerity- but is startled to find that Peter genuinely inquiring. He is confused and curious, not attempting to get Neal to admit to something that he already knows to be true.

Tentatively, he reaches into his left pocket and removes the phone. The screen has shattered in a gorgeous array of blues, blacks and whites. It flickers weakly at the pair of them.

He laughs a little, then a lot. Peter must think he's crazy but he can't help himself; he laughs just to keep tears of relief from pouring down his face. The laughter must mean something else because within seconds, Peter's laughing with him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: Many people loved the ending to the last chapter. After re-reading it, I loved the fic as a standalone. In fact, I considered just leaving it at that, and using this as scrap material for future stories. But, in the end, Neal's headache and behavior needed explaining and this got to be a REAL chapter. I apologize for all grammar and spelling errors. No beta, just me, tired and loopy.

Special thanks to SilentTrainConductor who helped me with Mozzie's voice.

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><p>The pair of them are practically rolling by the time Diana walks over, her expression quizzical.<p>

"Maybe I should call an ambulance for you, boss," she says.

The lump on Peter's head is an easter egg, round, red and purple, but he waves a dismissive hand at Diana. "I'm fine. Takes a harder knock than that to get me."

Neal leans back, his left hand over his eyes just in case any tears find their way out. He drags the hand down his face and grins in the manner that Diana's deemed devious.

"What about you, Caffrey?" Yet another frown. "You hurt?"

"Skinned my hands," he replies, the fall-out from adrenaline making his voice weak. He shows her his right palm as proof.

Getting into the car remains somewhat of a blur to him. He goes from animated and alive to completely drained. Diana, who ought to look after Peter and his head injury, actually guides him back to the Taurus instead. She offers to drive, which Neal encourages in a half-hearted, dazed manner, but Peter insists he's fine. Once they're safely ensconced in the warm interior, she glares at the pair of them and informs Peter that she'll be calling to check-in.

The bag of food surprises Neal for some reason. He almost forgot about the stakeout in the rapid change of events. Only an hour ago, they'd been sitting here, him ruminating, Peter enjoying El's cooking. How odd that life could change so quickly, that he could go from quiet contemplation to almost devastating revelation in such a short period of time. He leans against the window, exhausted, now, instead of bored and stressed. Everything mashes together into a semi-coherent blur and he's barely aware anyone's in the car with him. Everything's warm, safe, comfortable and it's all he needs for the moment…

"So, you never said," Peter interrupts his drifting.

"N'ver s'd wha?" he mumbles.

"What you showed him."

They pull up to June's house. It should have taken longer, Neal thinks, but a glance at the clock reveals twenty minutes have passed. He blinks and looks at Peter who waits expectantly. Pawing at his vapid brain for something witty and ambiguous (because this can't be his first true lie to Peter, not this), he finds himself completely devoid of responses. His fingers tingle as he attempts to disengage the seatbelt and fails repeatedly. Peter finally reaches over to help him.

"You feeling okay?"

No, not even remotely, but that's the headache and his out of control emotions and the fact that his coat, heavy with detritus from the alley, has stained the seatbelt. Distraction and illusion, his two best friends, wearily step up to bat and he pulls a sickly grin from no where. Peter clearly doesn't believe it.

"I'm tired," he answers because that's the truth. "See you tomorrow?"

"Neal…" Installing a warning light over Peter's head that brightens in accordance to the agent's stress level would make Neal's life easier.

"Good night, Peter."

He forces grace into his legs and arms for the minuscule walk into June's house. Once the door closes behind him, he allows that energy to work at simply keep him upright and moving. The stairs take forever, the key to his door doesn't fit no matter how he jams it in, and when he finally manages to twist it into place, he realizes that it was unlocked anyway. He almost falls into the apartment, weary beyond measure and explanation.

"So, how were the salt mines?" Mozzie asks. He has opened the '97 Chianti Neal hid in the storeroom.

He opens his mouth to answer, makes a noise somewhere between a whine and a groan, and collapses.

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><p>"…the phone, Suit." The stuffiness of his head and the thrumming of his skull muffle Mozzie's voice. "He's practically comatose. Don't touch him. You'll spread the plague."<p>

"I knew he looked off last night."

"Yes, so 'off' that he passed out in the doorway. No! NO! Don't touch the table either. I haven't disinfected it, yet."

"Mozzie, I don't think-"

"No, you don't think and because of it, I am going to contract whatever fatal illness he's wasting away from. These gloves and mask will only do so much. I already had initial contact with him without appropriate precautions. Who knows? We might BOTH die."

"Now, you're being melodramatic."

"No, I'm a realist. And- don't touch him!"

A hand settles on his forehead, comfortably dry against the clamminess that surrounds his body in a wet blanket. It comes and goes before he has a chance to enjoy it.

"Fever's not too high. Probably a cold."

"You're a doctor, now, too?"

"Will you tell him I'll be by again tonight?"

"I'll consider giving him fair warning if he hasn't perished."

A derisive snort.

He shifts under the blankets, his one arm numb, his leg hurting.

"And one more thing, Moz?"

"I plead the fifth."

Another huff. "Do you know what Neal uses this for?"

Silence. "Judging by its resemblance to a cellphone, I'd say he previously called and texted people on it. He may have browsed the internet and played solitaire. Why? Did his sneezing seem overly devious?"

"He used it last night. Showed it to a suspect who seemed convinced that he had a certain Nazi treasure stored away."

"Seems highly unlikely with the facts I am privy to. Best to ask Neal if he survives."

"I did already, he didn't give me an answer."

"Then it must not be important."

"Mozzie…"

"Listen, Suit, I know that you and Neal are in the midst of soap opera level drama in your Stockholm Syndrome induced love affair but I do my best not to get involved when Mom and Dad are fighting. You talk to him, not me."

"I understand."

"Good. And just so you're aware, in hypothetical situations when Neal's supposed acquaintances allegedly offer him scores, Neal declines regardless of how possibly beneficial the results of said imaginary heists might be. He deserves your trust."

"It's hard to trust someone who doesn't always tell me the truth."

"As far as I am aware, Neal has never lied to you." Good, old Mozzie. "And that's more than I can say about him and me. Now, go, use the sanitizer and leave before I have to deep clean the entire place again."

He waits until he hears the door open and shut before running a hand over his face. His vision remains foggy even as he rubs his eyes. Five feet away from him, Mozzie's perched in his arm chair. He has doctor's gloves on his hands and a mask over his face but (this time) he has skipped the full hazmat suit. Just beyond him, on the table, sits the largest container of hand sanitizer Neal has ever seen.

"It lives," Mozzie says, monotone, but Neal can detect worry behind his glasses.

"Barely," he rasps. "Water?"

"A moment, please."

Any time Mozzie agrees (or is forced) to care for a sick individual, all actions take more than a minute. Gloves are changed, hands sanitized, glass is thoroughly scrubbed, water is fresh poured from a purifier, and gloves are changed again; by the time Mozzie returns, he's dozing.

"Take these," Mozzie commands, an assortment of pills in his hand. When he doesn't immediately reach for them, Mozzie adds. "Tylenol 3, antibiotics and a multivitamin. Hopefully, it will stem off the worst of your cold and whatever infection you're bound to develop."

"'m not going to get an infection from a cold, Moz," he says, shakily taking the pills and the water. He feels utterly wretched.

Mozzie takes the cup back, holding it with two fingers and as far away from his body as possible. "But you will from that bullet wound in your leg. By the way, thank you for your dramatic entrance last night. I've lost part of my immune system and several years of my life."

Neal pulls at the blankets, pushing at them until he can see his leg. Instead of the grimy clothes from last night, he's wearing silk pajama bottoms and a light t-shirt. His left leg gives a particularly violent throb, and he struggles to pull his pants down enough to look at it.

"If you tear those stitches, I will let you bleed out," Mozzie calls from the kitchen. "Friendship only stretches so far."

"You're bedside manner's fantastic," Neal takes in the white bandaging taped over the outer side of his thigh. It wraps around a solid five inches and specks of blood decorate it. "Compassion should be your middle name." He's too drained to wiggle the pajama bottoms back on so he drags the blankets up instead.

"I'd like to think I'm distantly related to Florence Nightingale," Mozzie has started the glove process again.

"Thought you wanted to be Jefferson Smith's great-great-great grandson." His throat itches from drainage and his chest feels heavy. How did he not recognize the onset of illness last night?

"That better not be sarcasm I detect in your voice, invalid." From his position, Neal thinks he could see Mozzie scooping something into a bowl. "Let's not forget you are completely at my mercy. Besides, I do recall someone declaring to a room full of dangerous men that he was the direct descendant of Valfierno."

"Hmm, better than Soapy Smith," Neal ribs. He's on his way out again.

"Soapy Smith made hundreds of dollars off of a scheme that cost him barely anything," Mozzie returns, before him a bowl of soup on a tray. He sets it on Neal's lap and backs away quickly. "Besides, you're failing to acknowledge the point of this conversation."

Neal has no interest in the soup. It looks great and probably smells great, too, but he's nauseated and tired; not a good combination to eat on.

"Eat it," Mozzie says. "You'll offend June if you don't."

He watches Neal patiently as Neal attempts to choke down a bit of it. Neal knows he's waiting for Neal to broach a subject but for the life of him, he's drawing a blank. Everything's complicated for his torpid brain which could lead to embarrassing conclusions.

"Fine, I'll ask. Why didn't you let the Suit take you to one of those infested pits of sickness last night? You were hurt."

Oh, that. He sets the spoon down and slouches back onto the pillows. "I didn't realize it at the time. Shock, adrenaline… had me all twisted around."

"And the cell phone," Mozzie adds.

Their eyes meet. Mozzie's gaze is resigned. "Yes, and the cell phone."

"What does he know?" Mozzie asks.

Neal shakes his head. It hurts. "No more than before but his suspicion's up. He'll be riding me harder, now."

There's a few moments of quiet. Mozzie has his fingers steepled but away from his face and Neal's watching the room spin lazily. It doesn't help his stomach but doesn't make it much worse. He recognizes it as the unfortunate combination of sickness and blood loss and knows it's going to continue.

"I didn't have a choice. Frankel had a gun on Peter. It was the first thing that came to mind and the easiest thing to sell."

To this, Mozzie says nothing, at first. He stands and removes the tray when it becomes obvious Neal isn't eating anymore. The glove process commences, filling the apartment with running water. It lulls Neal back into half-consciousness and he's barely aware of Mozzie returning to the armchair.

"Action and reaction, ebb and flow, trial and error, change - this is the rhythm of living." Mozzie radiates sageness.

"Bruce Barton," Neal mumbles, drowsily. And then, "I had to, Mozzie."

Mozzie studies him. "We can't take him with us, Neal."

"I know, Moz."

"One day, you will have to leave him or… well, this." He motions to himself and in the general direction of Neal's easel.

"I know."

"In the end, you can't have both."

He knows but doesn't accept. Mozzie can read it off him from a mile away, no doubt. Another minute passes before the little man stands up. "For my pain and suffering, I am taking the 1986 Silver Oak that you hid under the floorboards. I will also be contacting Elizabeth so that she will smother you with food, affection and lectures. And I know you heard it, but the Suit's coming back tonight, so be prepared."

"Thanks, Moz."

He's asleep before Mozzie leaves the room.

He doesn't prepare for Peter's arrival.

He blames a number of things for that. The foremost among them is, without a doubt, infirmity. The drugs that Mozzie forced upon him help immensely for the first few hours but as they wear off, so grows the suffering. The bottles (with intricate hand-scrawled warnings) sit on his bedside table and he swallows down more Tylenol 3 but doesn't touch the antibiotic. His stomach barely tolerates the water that he uses to wash down the painkillers and he has no interest in the vitamins despite the encouraging "take with abandon" written over the proper dosage.

He's curled up on his good side when a knock on the door startles him awake. His head has progressed from unpleasantly clogged to just short of erupting. Sneezing and coughing have integrated themselves into his breathing so that the pattern goes from in, out, in, out to in, hack, sneeze, out, sneeze, hack, in. Though Mozzie left him some tissues, he has reduced them to snotty messes and now, to his disgust, has to inhale the worst of the dripping so it dribbles down his throat. His leg throbs happily, obviously in cahoots with the virus.

Peter steps in and quietly shuts the door behind him. He has a bag in his one hand, his coat over his free arm. His forehead has a spectacular set of bruises on it that drift down to his eyes, giving him a look reserved, normally, for raccoons. The furrows on his face have deepened to a permanent grimace that Neal finds terrifying for no good reason.

Peter settles everything on the table before he realizes that Neal's watching him with fever-fogged eyes. He smiles (somewhat stunted) and unloads three large tupperwares. Neal feels a faint amount of gratitude when Peter leaves them; he doesn't think he can eat and has no energy to put on a good front. Instead, he keeps the blankets tucked in the crook of his neck and pretends that he's exhausted. If he can convince himself of it, he can get himself thinking clearly and rationally. If he can think clearly and rationally, he can keep Peter from asking uncomfortable questions and balance their precarious relationship back on the pin top.

"Stupid question," Peter starts. He settles into Mozzie's forgotten arm chair. "How are you feeling?"

"Hmm." He remains noncommittal. A few struggling pushes has him propped up if not sitting. "How was the office?" His throat protests and he swallows hard.

"Mortgage fraud cases," Peter says. "I'm sure you're devastated."

"Inconsolable." He clears his throat and winces. The wince triggers a sneeze which he holds in and his head attempts to explode with the force. "Get anything from Frankel?"

"He's cooling his heels in a holding cell." Neal knows that means, no, nothing. "At the very least, we have him for assaulting a federal agent so he's not going anywhere."

"Neither will the case unless someone does something," Neal points out. He sits up a bit further. "I could… convince him."

Peter snorts, ungentlemanly, disbelievingly, and so Peterly, that Neal smiles a bit despite himself. "The only thing you can convince him of right now is the zombie apocalypse. He can wait, Neal. You need to rest and eat some of Elizabeth's goodies. She's sorry she's not here herself but she had an important meeting. Says for you to feel better and she'll see you tomorrow."

His stomach clenches and he sinks down a fraction. Peter stands again, wandering back to the table, and he watches his keeper with a careful eye. There are no signs of personal disappointment, anger, regret- nothing to show that Peter believes Neal has Adler's treasure trove more than usual. There's nothing to imply that he trusts Neal any less than he trusted him yesterday, pre-Frankel. Reasonably, he understands that the dismissal of his expertise is due to the dripping snot and lethargy he sports like a slogan shirt.

But he still feels empty. It's a pit, an itch, a sickness, almost like the cold, but it's spurred on by the conscience and at war with his basic instincts. What makes him an asset, what makes him GOOD, sits in conflict with what Peter wants for him, and he can't reconcile the pair of them. If he makes a decision, chooses Peter over conning or conning over Peter, then he has to kill a part of what makes him. There's no other option, no trick answer, no rescue; either he straightens up and buys into the American Dream or he goes back to life as it always was. Half-way in either direction simply will not work.

Another tray with soup he can't smell or taste and a cup of water. Peter peruses the bottles Mozzie left for him, frowning, prodding and, finally, following the directions. He forces Neal to take them, coerces him into a few bites of food, and insists that Neal finishes the water. With exceptional patience, and much to Neal's embarrassment, he helps him out of bed, to the bathroom and back across the room again.

In the time that it takes- filled with head rushes, frowns, screaming agony from his leg, chills and a thoroughly chewed lower lip- he twists himself into knots. He knows part of it is fever and part of it is pain but the rest is his psyche fighting inevitability like a rabbit in a snare. It raises sweat on his forehead, sends shivers down his spine, makes his gorge rise. If he had panic attacks, he would think it is one, but even in the worst situations, he has never let fear gain control over him.

"You taken your temperature at all today?" Peter asks, as he burrows into the blankets and trembles. He attempts to touch Neal's forehead but Neal dodges him.

He means to say, "No, but I'm all right," but it comes out wrong. "Peter, do you think you'll ever trust me?"

"Neal," gentle, soothing, "I don't think now is the time for this conversation."

He agrees but his mouth doesn't. "If I serve out my time, and get a respectable job, will you trust me fully?"

"When," Peter corrects, softly. He sits down.

"When," Neal says.

"Let's wait until you're feeling better and then we'll talk about it," Peter repeats.

"No, I need to know," and he does. "I need to know if I keep in line, if I do the work, will you trust me?"

Peter sighs, the sigh of a man resigned to a fate he does not like. He looks at Neal. "Neal, I don't know. Will you ever trust me enough to tell me the truth?"

He tries to say he does, that he lies for Peter's protection, but it sticks in his throat like the mucus from the cold and he coughs instead. "I work without complaint, give my expertise, and do everything in my power to help you solve your cases. I do what you need me to do in order to get the job done."

"Neal, I need to know that I can trust you to do what's right. Always. Not what you feel is right, not what will bring out the best conclusions, not what pulls the perfect con. I need to know that you'll be honest with me regardless of the outcome."

"I've never lied to you," he says, though he knows it's meaningless. Mozzie said it earlier and he's said it on multiple occasions previously.

"A lie of omission is still a lie."

His mother had said that to him, years and years ago, before he decided to do what he did, before he chose this life to satiate his desires and talents. Not telling the truth is bad but hiding the truth may be even worse. It not only maligned you but it maligned others as well. Of course, his lifestyle required ignorance to both those lessons and until this point, he had never questioned his decision.

"So, you're saying that as long as I work with you or with the FBI," he says, slowly, his fingers at his the bridge of his nose. "I am destined for lie detectors, second guessing and raised eyebrows?"

Peter shakes his head. "No, Neal. I'm saying that as long as you're working with me, I will always know when you aren't giving me all the facts, no matter how much honesty you hide behind."

"I didn't take the treasure."

Peter forces them to meet eyes. "I know." _But you do have it._ "What did you show Frankel last night?"

His heart lies here even if it means betraying himself. Under the glowing light of truth, kindled by fever and self-doubt, he can see the splotchy whiteness of his reformed morality and the surging "goodness" it requires of him. His decision was made a long while ago, probably after a dinner he shared with Peter and Elizabeth, probably after a simple park-bench, brown-bag lunch with Diana, probably after a grueling night in the spy van with Jones, probably after a dance across the living room with June.

But he can't let go. Not quite yet. "Something a friend gave me in confidence with the hope that I would keep it safe." He swallows.

Peter is weary. He runs his hands through his hair, down his face and cups his chin with them. "All right."

"All right?"

"Yes," Peter stands and approaches the bed. He fumbles in his jacket for a moment and relinquishes the broken cellphone to Neal's bedside table. Neal closes his eyes, still empty, still drained, but, strangely, calm and accepting.

This time he lets Peter touch his forehead.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Soapy Smith is famous for "The Prize Soap Racket" and a number of criminal empires.

Valfierno supposedly masterminded the theft of the Mona Lisa.

All knowledge gleaned from the internet and potentially has errors.

I apologize to the ghost of Bruce Barton for using his quote this way.


End file.
